


Latkes

by ladysisyphus



Series: Wolves [18]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 19:23:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2036976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladysisyphus/pseuds/ladysisyphus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The second clear thought Numbers had on waking was that this was in fact the <i>perfect</i> time to make latkes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Latkes

The second clear thought Numbers had on waking was that this was in fact the _perfect_ time to make latkes. It might be awkward doing it in an unfamiliar apartment kitchen, but he'd done more with less.

The first clear thought was that if he could slip out of Wrench's bed and room without waking Wrench up, it would be a miracle worth making him think about thanking God for facilitating it.

What came before that wasn't clear at all, but instead existed in a pleasant haze in which Numbers was aware he was warm and safe and happy. He knew his brain should be spinning off in some sort of panic orbit, but it wasn't there yet, so he took advantage of the downtime and spent a good five minutes just watching Wrench sleep. It wasn't the first time he'd done so, but it was the first time when Wrench hadn't been fever-weary and uneasy. Wrench slept soundly now, snoring in a counterpoint to the clanks and hisses of the radiator, his face relaxed, one hand curled loose on the pillow by his face. His eyes twitched behind his eyelids. Numbers wondered what he was dreaming about.

He didn't wonder too long, though, because light from behind the curtains had already begun to fill the room and Wrench's breathing began to grow shallower, toward the waking side of morning. That was his cue to say a prayer and head for the kitchen.

He couldn't quite look at the couch as he passed it, but he couldn't quite _not_ look at it either, which somehow averaged out to tracking it out of the corner of his eye. His shoes and jacket were still there, as was his belt -- all things he'd thought he couldn't or shouldn't sleep in. He'd thought about stripping down to his boxers and giving that a try, but figured that would have been more awkward than just sleeping in dress pants and a nice shirt. Now he didn't know what to think.

What he _did_ know, though, was that he couldn't make latkes with what little was in Wrench's cupboards, even after the grocery run he'd done on his way over. With the closest pen and paper he could find, he scrawled _Gone shopping, back in a few_ and left it in the most prominent place he could find on the kitchen counter. The last thing he wanted was to give the impression that he might not be coming back.

When he returned from the Hornbacher's, the apartment was still quiet and the note hadn't been moved. Numbers couldn't read that as a good sign or a bad one, so he chose not to read it at all and instead got to work. He sorted the cold items into the refrigerator, stacked the rest of the food in the pantry, and set out the inedible objects for a good pre-use scrub. He'd assembled a motley set of tools from what could be found at a chain grocery store at nine on a Tuesday morning, but they were better than nothing. 

...Now where had the potatoes gone?

The top shelf of the refrigerator, apparently, as if that made any sense. At least Wrench's poor decisions could be chalked up to the amount of painkillers Wrench was still taking. A _lot_ of things could be chalked up to the amount of painkillers Wrench was still taking, which was why Numbers had split from the bedroom as soon as possible. If they were going to pretend this hadn't happened, not being right there when the other person woke up was a solid start.

He gave both the potatoes and the new grater a good scrub; he'd bought the latter because his few previous adventures with that kitchen had revealed that Wrench didn't have either one of those or a food processor, and he'd feared it would be somewhat awkward to return with both a bag of groceries in one arm _and_ a whole new kitchen appliance in the other. His grandmother had always made them by hand anyway, so it wasn't as though he didn't know how. He couldn't find any measuring cups in the drawers and he hadn't thought to grab any; he'd have to approximate. Well, at least if he screwed it up, Wrench's _goyishe_ tongue wouldn't know the difference.

And speaking of Wrench's tongue -- even if thinking of 'Wrench's tongue' and 'speaking' in the same sentence was darkly funny -- he could still see out of the far corner of his eye the couch where Wrench had held him down the night before and then given him the best blowjob of his _life_ , and what was Numbers going to do about that?

He was going to chop onions, that was what. The only knives Wrench had in his kitchen had seen better, sharper days, so Numbers took the hunting knife from his own pocket and got to work. He'd cleaned it very thoroughly after the last time he'd stabbed it into a guy's thigh, he was sure. His mother had always called him or his older sister over to help with this portion of the preparation, because every time she cut onions, tears would stream down her face for half an hour after. Numbers remembered her as a pretty enough woman, though he couldn't honestly say now what of that was memory and what of it was writing back a narrative that said he hadn't had it so bad. She'd loved him and he'd disappointed her. It was a very short, very Jewish story.

He didn't try to think about home, and he didn't try _not_ to think about home, even if he'd never been able to stop thinking of the place he'd grown up as 'home'. It just sort of existed there in his mind, like the knowledge of old recipes, at hand if he needed it but silent if he didn't. He'd once been so homesick he'd thought he might die, and he hadn't, and now he considered himself immune. Two eggs, enough flour to make a little mound in his palm (he hadn't even bothered asking the grocery clerks if they carried matzah meal -- lutefisk and pork summer sausage, sure; staples of Jewish cuisine, try again), pinches of baking powder, salt, and pepper. Perfect. Time for the potatoes.

He'd often been tasked with helping out this part of the production too, though that was because he was the youngest child capable of doing it and because it was the worst part of the job. He took the same knife he could remember stabbing through a man's cheek and lopped off the less appealing spots. His mother had always made him out-and-out peel them, so he hadn't bought a peeler because he'd known if he had one, he would've felt compelled to use it. Instead, he sliced one of the potatoes in half, put the flat edge against the grater, and began to reduce it to shreds.

By the time he was well into the third potato and his hand was a wet, starchy mess, he heard a noise from the bedroom, followed by the long hiss of the shower. Oh, a shower would be good; he probably needed one of those. He definitely needed a change of clothes. He'd come straight from the job to Wrench's apartment, with only a brief grocery detour. He needed to go by his place. Maybe he'd go after Wrench kicked him out.

No, he didn't think that would happen. No matter how mad Wrench was at him, Numbers didn't think it would extend to an outright confrontation. At least, he was 90% sure it wouldn't. The other ten percent was why he was trying to ensure his usefulness with latkes.

Onions went in with the potatoes, which then went in with everything else, and Numbers stuck it all in the fridge while he hunted around for a skillet. A servicible one lived in the cabinet above the stove, but the cobwebs around the handle told how long it had been since it had seen any use. He wondered what secondhand store this had come from, and what had possessed Wrench to get it. Now he knew what all to buy Wrench for his birthday. That was, if Wrench ever spoke to him again.

He kept telling himself it was stupid to be worried and then worrying anyway. It was like a sore in his mouth, where he could remember he shouldn't poke it and then found himself two minutes later poking it again.

Oil was just starting to shimmer with heat in the (scrubbed clean, twice) skillet when Wrench exited the bedroom in jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. Still shower-damp, his hair was dark and curls stuck to the sides of his face and neck. His bare feet made soft slapping sounds across the linoleum as he approached, and when he was close enough, Numbers turned and gave him a preemptive little wave: Good morning.

Wrench returned the wave, though his smile was tight. What are you doing? he asked, peering at what had become of his kitchen.

L-A-T-K-E-S, Numbers told him with the hand that wasn't reaching into the refrigerator for the bowl of potato mix. He lifted a spoonful of the stuff and Wrench stared blearily at him as though he didn't understand why Numbers thought that explained anything. Numbers put down the bowl long enough to sign 'pancake' (a diner sign if ever there'd been one), then repeated it, making the flipping hand into a L instead of an open palm. There, now they didn't need to spell it out every time.

Wrench still had the sling around his arm, though after last night, Numbers didn't imagine he'd need it much longer. Numbers took a spoonful and plopped it right into the oil, where it hissed and sizzled as he added three more to it. Wrench ran his good hand through his hair, still blinking a lot; it seemed as though the shower hadn't done much good for his comprehension. Where did you get bowls?

I got them at the Hornbacher's because you did not have enough, Numbers told him, pointing at the note he'd left, as though it explained everything.

With a little nod, Wrench read the note -- or at least stared at the note long enough to read it a couple times over, for all Numbers could tell the difference -- then turned to Numbers again: I'll pay you back.

Numbers shook his head. Two-dollar bowls won't break my bank. Hand me that S-P-A-T-U-L-A.

Wrench looked around for a moment, confused, before seeing the spatula in question, washed and drip-drying over the edge of the sink. He stared at it with a frown, no doubt wondering why yet another thing he didn't recognize had come to inhabit his kitchen, but he did as he was told and forked it over. Numbers thanked him with one hand and flipped the latkes with the other. The oil popped as it made contact with the patties' cooler sides.

With a dazed nod, Wrench folded his good arm over his sling-paralyzed one and leaned against the wall. If he'd been a dog, he would've had his tail between his legs -- not out of shame, maybe, but out of a desire to be small. Wrench was a big guy, but with his shoulders hunched and his face downcast, he held himself like he was half his height. So he wasn't mad. That was something. What he was instead, though, was yet to be determined.

When the latkes were brown to his liking, Numbers scooped them out and piled them on a paper-towel-covered plate he'd set up beside the stove. Grease made little halos around them as they sat there, piping hot. Numbers took the mixing bowl and doled out another four lumps of batter. Get the S-O-U-R-C-R-E-A-M out of the fridge, Numbers instructed Wrench, and the A-P-P-L-E-S-A-U-C-E. As toppings went, he'd decided that traditional would be best to start with. There was always something to be said for the classics.

Wrench nodded and did as he was told, and then was very still behind Numbers, long enough that Numbers almost turned to see what the matter was. But then he heared the sound of the refrigerator's closing and saw Wrench walk by with a plastic tub in one hand and a glass jar tucked in the crook of his sling-supported arm. He set them in the center of his kitchen's tiny, teetering table. They'd had plenty of takeout Chinese and pizzas stacked there over the course of ther acquaintance, but Numbers would have put down good money that nothing approaching a home-cooked meal had ever graced its surface. The second batch came out, and if anything they looked even better than the first. He stacked them all on a plate, handed it to Wrench, and signed, eat, eat.

For a moment, Wrench only stared down at the offered food, and Numbers braced himself, ready to have several lumps of hot-oil-soaked potatoes smashed into his chest or his face. Shit, he shouldn't have done any of this; he should have just gone. He was only making it worse.

Then Wrench looked up at him with an expression Numbers had never seen on his face before: guilt, pure and simple, from the way he lowered his chin so he had to peer out through the tops of his eyes to the way his teeth snagged his lower lip. Numbers reached up and touched Wrench's face, cupping Wrench's cheek in the curve of his own palm and holding him there for a steady, gentle moment -- before signing _eat!_ with such ferocity that he knew Wrench wouldn't dare disobey.

Wrench didn't. He walked over and sat down with his plate -- then looked at the table and frowned. Numbers wondered at first why Wrench looked so lost, then saw the condiment decision before him and waved his arm until he got Wrench's attention: Pick one. 

Only one? 

Only one or both. But I don't like both together. I need to finish mine. After that I'll eat too. 

Wrench nodded, though the visible worry hadn't disappeared from his face, not by a mile. It was either there because he thought he'd done something wrong or because he was afraid Numbers would do something he didn't like again, and neither possbility was something Numbers wanted to think about for too long. Instead, he worked his mouth into a smile and nodded as Wrench opted for the sour cream. Maybe this would all seem more reasonable on a full stomach. 

By the time Numbers' own plate was filled, Wrench was well into his stack and showing no signs of slowing. He looked up as Numbers sat down. How do you like them? Numbers asked, then popped open the jar of applesauce. 

Good, signed Wrench, accidentally getting a dab of sour cream on his cheek with his fork. Very good. Thank you. 

It hadn't really occurred to Numbers before then that at once the best and worst thing about sign language was how it didn't let you turn away. He'd had his share of uncomfortable morning-after encounters conducted in averted glances and artificial cheer, and things had always been easier like that, jabbering at nothing to fill the silence while everything else slipped further away. But that was no longer an option. If he and Wrench were going to pretend about anything, they were going to have to do it while they looked one another in the eye.

At least Wrench's _goyishe_ tongue knew what it was talking about -- despite the ingredient substitutions and general guesswork, Numbers had to say he'd done a fine job. Cooking was for girls, he explained to Wrench between bites, but I helped my mother and grandmother get ready to cook. I watched. You can make them different ways. This is how my mother made them.

Good, Wrench repeated. He shoveled another forkful into his mouth and nodded: I like them.

Try both, Numbers signed before pushing his plate across the table. Wrench hesitated for only a moment, with all the caution of an animal suspicious that a trap might be hiding behind a treat, before sliding the plate the rest of the way toward him and taking a bite. Numbers smiled to see him eat: Which one do you like more?

Wrench thought about it for a moment. Both are good. But yours is better.

Numbers laughed aloud and swapped their plates, trading the few remaining bites of Wrench's portion for his own barely touched pile. There had been so many days in there, days stretching into weeks, where Wrench hadn't taken more than a few mouthfuls at a go of whatever Numbers could get into him. He'd never be a skinny man, but he looked so small now compared to his usual state that Numbers would have turned over his portion of every meal for the next year if Wrench had shown even the slightest interest. A plate of fresh latkes was a small price to pay to speed him on toward his recovery.

At least they were accustomed to staring at one another under even perfectly ordinary circumstances, because Numbers couldn't keep his eyes off Wrench's lips. They were pretty, and he'd never thought that about a man's lips before, and he'd never even thought that about _Wrench's_ lips before seeing them wrapped around his cock, at which point it had become impossible to think just about anything else. But even that, too, seemed oddly on the side of normal for them. A variation on their usual theme. Just another day.

Numbers reached his hand into the middle of the table and drummed his fingers on its surface a few times, catching Wrench's attention. I have to go out, he signed. The boss wants to talk about Montana. I need a shower. I need to do laundry. Do you want me to come back tonight?

There was a pause as Wrench put his fork down, a space in which Numbers was sure it was all over -- he didn't even know what the 'it' in question was, just that he was staring down the barrel of its finale. But instead, Wrench nodded and rubbed an open palm in a circle over his chest. Please.

Okay, Numbers signed with a nod. I'll come back tonight. Doctor tomorrow at 10:00, remember? I don't know what the boss wants, but he might want us on another job soon. How are you feeling?

Wrench looked down at his left hand and flexed it, wincing as he did. His open pill bottles were lined up on the counter; he hadn't touched a single one this morning. With his right hand, however, he signed: Tell him I'm okay.

Numbers frowned. Not what I asked.

Tell him anyway. Maybe the doctor will agree.

Maybe, agreed Numbers. Maybe he'll think we make a good team.

We _do_ make a good team. Wrench punctuated the sentence with a soft pound of his fist against the tabletop. I don't want you paired with other people. Tell him I'm better.

He _knows_ you're better, signed Numbers, and he hesitated only a second before continuing: Don't worry. I don't think other people will want to work with me again.

Why?

P-I-N-E. Broke his nose.

Wrench's blue eyes widened. This week, in Montana? You did?

He asked for it. Numbers shrugged.

Good job.

Numbers signed a quick thank-you before picking up both empty plates and taking them to the sink. Either Wrench would get them while he was gone or Numbers would get them when he came back. It was weird how that wasn't weird -- how _none_ of this was weird, how he wasn't curled up on the floor right now, or striking out at everything in range. He'd expected since waking that it would hit him eventually, and it hadn't. Maybe there was nothing to hit. Maybe this was just the next logical step.

Wrench hovered as Numbers ran the tap and dried his hands on a dish towel; he followed but kept his distance at the same time, caught in an uneasy orbit. Tired of breaking noses? he asked with a little smile. Is that why you want me back?

I _can't_ break yours, Numbers signed, reaching over and tapping the tip of Wrench's nose for emphasis. I would try and hurt my hand. Then your doctor would say, don't break him, I'm trying to fix him.

That coaxed Wrench's wary smile into a wider one. For all the past few weeks had involved seeing Wrench at his most pain-ridden and life-threatened, this -- here, with his hair shower-wet and his feet bare and his cheeks flushed -- was different. This was Wrench without armor, with his soft belly exposed. This was a _lot_ of rope.

I'll be back in a few hours, said Numbers, reaching for the scarf he'd left bunched on the counter when he'd returned from his earlier grocery excursion. Do you need anything else?

He'd expected some sort of polite refusal, a head-shaking reassurance that his pantry was now _well_ -stocked, many thanks -- but instead Wrench held up one finger. Numbers shrugged in the general direction of 'what?', but before he could even complete the gesture, Wrench's lips were against his. As deep, passionate kisses went, this could never have numbered among them. But as far as straight-up shows of bravery were concerned, it might have topped Numbers' lifelong list. Wrench's mouth was soft and dry, and he tasted like both sour cream and applesauce, and Numbers took back _everything_ he'd ever said about not liking that combination. He'd just needed to find the right medium.

Before Numbers could work up the wherewithal to kiss back, though, Wrench pulled back far enough that the distance between them could carry the rapid motion of his hands: Please come back.

Coming back, coming back, don't worry, Numbers signed dismissively, as though such a thing might be obvious, as though Wrench had no reason to believe the straight partner he'd sucked off last night might be planning to walk at once out the door and out of his life. He reached up with the edge of his scarf and flecked away the all-but-dried smear of white from Wrench's cheek. You need someone to take care of you.

With his left hand, Wrench flipped him off, which made them both laugh. Numbers supposed men like them never went in for the right kind of normal anyway.

He shrugged on his coat and buttoned it, then turned the collar against the wind, which he could hear whipping outside the door to Wrench's apartment. Wrench hovered still, a silent shadow in his own home, until Numbers looked straight at him and Wrench signed: Are we good?

Except that wasn't quite what he signed; the language didn't work like that. Instead, Wrench flicked an index finger back and forth between them, indicating them both, then raised his eyebrows and half-pursed his lips for a question as he took his right hand from his chin to the general direction of his immobilized left palm: You, me, good? Like all of Wrench's sentences, it required some interpretation. There were no easy distinctions there to be found between _is everything okay between us right now?_ and _did you enjoy your body against mine?_ and _do you think the two of us are good together?_

Yes, knocked Numbers. I'll come back later.

I'll be here.

He would, too, which meant that this could absolutely wait for later, which meant that Numbers would have been fine just walking out the door right then without reaching for Wrench's face with both hands and slipping fingers back into his damp, shower-wild hair and kissing him hard. Except no, there was no way he could have gone then without getting in the last word. This was another sign, after all, one of the haphazard kind Numbers was prone to invent by necessity, and it meant yes, yes, yes.

**Author's Note:**

> There are many ways to make latkes, so I used [Norene’s Easy Potato Latkes](http://www.w.ouradio.org/torah/article/the_chefs_table_latkes...lots_of_luscious_latkes) as a guide. If you scroll down, though, you can find lots of variations on the classic, and the next time I go to the store, I am getting the stuff for Estee’s Crispy Cheese Latkes.
> 
> I hope I made everyone hungry.


End file.
